I focus on my tactical approach. Noah’s strategy is different IRL than it is online. He castles on his left and brings his queen out daringly early. I find this style familiar, though, and after half a dozen turns, I realize Noah plays chess like the character he wrote in the chess scenes of his novel, Twenty-One Games with a Stranger.
It tells me how to win—a one-two punch with my queen and my bishop.
I wonder whether Noah based that character on himself in other ways. Whether I might revisit the pages of that book to better know the man before me.
But maybe, to know Noah, all I need to do is pay attention. To the paintings he’s chosen for his walls—bright and urgent, each full of its own story. To his generosity—Saturday sushi, second-draft-effect tulips, Swiss Army knife treatments of my ex’s window pane. To his confession at the bar last weekend that, when it comes to romance off the page, Noah Ross is as lost as anyone who’s ever searched for love.
“Checkmate,” Noah says.
My jaw drops. He’s got me pinned between his rooks. How did I let this happen?
I want to be a gracious loser, but I honestly can’t believe this. The only thing that makes it bearable is looking up at him and confronting The Eyebrow.
We both start laughing. Noah reaches for the sake, and we’re surprised to find the bottle drained.
“Guess I should go,” I say, though my dignity wouldn’t mind a rematch.
Noah rises and gets my coat. He walks me to the door, then down the walk, where two old-fashioned streetlights have come on and make the place look like we’ve dipped back in time a hundred years. It’s cold and our breath clouds the air.
“Thank you,” he says as I hail a cab on Broadway.
“For what?” I turn to say.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt inspired.”
“Me, too,” I say before I can stop myself. Because even though my being inspired has nothing to do with our mission, it’s true. The chess game, the Cloisters, Noah’s surprising apartment, and the invitation to Positano—it all mingles in my mind and makes me feel a little dazzled as I wave good night to Noah through the window of the cab.
Chapter Fourteen
Meg: Last-minute stroke of genius. Meet me at Color Me Mine in Tribeca at 11 a.m. Yes, it’s a kid birthday party. But it’s hosted by our class’s one and only Hot Dad. And he’s single. Boom.
Rufus: And I’m on this text thread because . . . ? It is a known fact that I do Pilates Saturday a.m.
Meg: Because if you vote that Lanie should go, and I vote that Lanie should go, then we out-vote her ass two-to-one. Ruf, you can meet us after Pilates for cake.
Rufus: Lanie, your resistance is preemptively overruled. See you ladies 12:15ish. That cake better not be gluten-free.
I see my friends’ messages as I’m getting out of the shower. I’m running late to meet Noah in Brooklyn in an hour, so I dash off an apologetic response.
Me: Sorry, y’all. Plans today. Maybe I can catch Hot Dad at the next party.
Meg: That is not how Hot Dad–physics work. If you don’t move on him at this party, a wiser woman will. Come on, Lanie! Blow off your plans so you can blow Hot Dad. Someone needs to confirm our class’s suspicions of his well-endowment. I’ll throw in a ceramic unicorn. . . .
Me: I can’t blow off my plans. They’re with Noa Callaway. Remember—the book that’s five months late . . . and that all our jobs depend on?
My phone rings with a FaceTime from Meg. When I pick up, Rufus is already on the call.
“You’re wearing that to Noa Callaway?” Rufus says, taking in my jean jacket with the fleece lining through the screen. “I mean, you look fresh, but . . . it’s Noa Callaway. I would have thought BD’s Fendi suit?”
I laugh to myself because, great minds, but also—I can’t tell Rufus that Noah has given me something of a dress code for today’s mystery adventure in Red Hook. Jeans and a “sturdy jacket.”
I know my friends assume that I’m having a regular, business style meeting with Noa Callaway. One where we sit in an office with two laptops between us, a gallon of coffee, and pencils behind our ears.
“What’s the status of the book?” Meg says. “Is she writing yet? Can my kids go to college or what?”
“Not exactly,” I say. “We’re still circling the right concept. That’s what today is about.” I find that I don’t have to inject optimism into my voice. I truly feel optimistic. I know Noah and I have next to nothing of an idea yet, but at the Cloisters, inspiration felt near.
“I can’t believe Noa Callaway has writer’s block!” Meg says, shaking her head while flipping pancakes. “Maybe she’s going through menopause and can’t be bothered with sex scenes? My sister’s libido during menopause just . . .” She whistles the sound of a plummeting bomb. “Oh, I need Noa Callaway’s sex scenes. The world needs Noa Callaway’s sex scenes!”
“You have to fix this, Lanie,” Rufus says. “Send over a gigolo!” His handsome-devil smile spreads across his face. “You know it’s been done. Back in the sixties, editors probably hired sex workers for all their authors who were blocked.”
“I’m working on it, believe me,” I say. “Not the gigolo, but the inspiration. And I’m late, so—”
“Hold on,” Rufus says, squinting into his phone. “Did you get laid last night? You look all flushed and happy.”
“OMG,” Meg says. “And you did say no to meeting the hottest Hot Dad in Hot Dad Land! You got laid! Who is he? Is he still in your apartment?”
I roll my eyes, but when I take a last look in the mirror, I have to admit they’re right. I do look flushed and happy.
“I’m just excited,” I say. That’s the right word, isn’t it? “I have this funny sense that Noa and I are close to getting somewhere great. I’m . . . flushed and happy that a new love story is about to be born.” I smile at them. “Gotta go!”
“Bullshit—” Meg is calling as I hang up the phone.
* * *
Noah’s instructions said to meet him in Red Hook at ten a.m., at a double-wide trailer behind the Ikea.
When I get there, in my sturdy jacket, full of questions, a woman is sitting in a lawn chair in front of the trailer. She waves like she’s been waiting for me.
“Lanie, I’m Bernadette,” she says, standing and sticking out her hand. She is sixty, buxom, with long, windblown, blond hair, a smoky eye, big smile, and a patch on her leather jacket that reads IRON BUTT ASSOCIATION. “You can call me B.”